


The vampire, Oliver returning to B.

by BarkingBard



Series: The Vampire, Oliver. [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, An axe to grind, Angst, Corpse Desecration, Gaul - Freeform, Infanticide, Las Vegas, Multi, Paris (City), Philosophy, Poetry reading rooting, Sexual Slavery, Surly Sire, Travel, sex tourism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-10-03 12:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17283953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarkingBard/pseuds/BarkingBard
Summary: The vampire, Oliver has made up his mind to answer his sire Elio’s calling to return to the nest in Northern Italy. Oliver has an axe to grind and Elio has no intention of making his return to the villa an easy one.





	1. Viva Las Vegas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wegiemom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wegiemom/gifts), [ElementalPea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElementalPea/gifts).



The cigar smoke wraps around the table giving off a hazy glow. Even with this distraction, Oliver’s senses could read every ‘tell’ of the other nine poker players at his table. It was truly his table as he was cleaning up. The patsies stunk of fear, stress, indecision and some false confidence. Little did they know that he could practically read their hands as they were dealt. Before he became a vampire he was a supreme poker player and after, he was in a league of his own. The lack of a need to sleep and the loss of the ability to become intoxicated made him even sharper as the night wore on. He could taste the mood of the room and knew when to push and when to ease off. Drop a hint here or fake a ‘tell’ there, he would lure them in and start emptying their wallets. He loved this, particularly after he had fed.

Elio’s mind would periodically probe for his, but at the table he could blank him out. Vampires have a strange bond, connecting a sire and their progeny. Like a hive-mind, they communicate by emotional response between their kin almost constantly. He felt the others, sensed their dangers or elation and most definitely their delight when feeding.

He tried to put Elio out of his mind and focused on the pleasure of playing with people’s lives. He could be gracious or kind if he wished but he definitely had no aversion to slitting their throat in a literal or actual fashion.

Usually, Oliver couldn’t be too obvious with his winning. He did not want to be photographed nor be recorded as he collected a championship trophy. He preferred to play smaller competitions or out of the way casinos; he could earn fifty to a hundred thousand dollars without too much commotion or question.

Tonight was different. He had made his mind up to answer Elio’s call and to make his way back to Europe. He didn’t plan for this to be a friendly visit. He would have liked to walk straight into the Villa and give Elio a piece of his mind, but he would need his wits about him for that. Since he knew he wouldn’t be returning to the States for a while he didn’t care how many bridges he burnt, he just needed to get as much cash as possible.

Oliver played ‘No Limits poker’ at Bellagio in downtown Las Vegas. It was bigger and flashier than he usually preferred to play in but the main thing was that there were a lot of players with money to burn. The place was plush – a healthy mix of high rollers and drunken tourists, all throwing about their cash vying to win the pot. The guy opposite was trying to use an excess of cash and calling every time he could to control the table but he was a rubbish player. ‘Not tonight sucker’ Oliver thought to himself and he took him for a clean $100,000.

At weekends the big sharks came out, so it wouldn’t be easy pickings, but Oliver is a predator of a calibre they didn’t recognise nor understand. He just had to be patient and make sure he wasn’t chasing the low percentage draw. The shark at his table was an older bald guy wearing a turtleneck. He seemed to always have the cards hand after hand. Oliver started to watch his hands as he played. To a mortal eye nothing would have been off or obvious. He was just lucky, the cocky shit. As he continued to watch, he saw it. He knew it would there … the ‘sleight of hand’ trick. Oliver called the waitress over to refill his drink, and made out to give her his phone number. With his cash as he played, he slipped her a note for the management. Two minutes later in much commotion turtleneck was escorted to a backroom. He glared at Oliver as the goons pulled him away, his face as red as his turtleneck was white. Now that dealt with him, back to the game.

Elio always hated the few times Oliver would go out and play poker. He couldn’t understand the interest that Oliver had in leaving him and worse, he was controlling of the people who would enter Oliver’s world. Elio would not tolerate even the slightest sign of affection towards anyone other than him. Ironically, he demanded complete and absolute loyalty and yet all and sundry had to accept his whims and dalliances in whatever direction he chose for them to go. Just a simple greeting or opening a door for a stranger would entail a jealous rage that could last for days. One of these outbursts had already cost Oliver one of his dearest friends and confidant. That boy’s temper knew no bounds and Elio had no issue with welding his maleficence.

Oliver left the table at 7am and cashed out. It had been a great night, walking away with just under four million dollars. He was buzzing from the noise, smell and lights. He needed some time alone to prepare himself for his long journey ahead. It would take all of his patience and control to be trapped in the metal tube full of tasty mortals. He had booked a first-class seat for his flight to Paris. The separation from temptation would help and he would be less obvious to the other travellers. The crew would not question any of his proclivities and desire for isolation. Flying was hell.

Vampires didn’t need to sleep. They don’t eat or drink unless they want to blend in. He had little to no interest in the mindless television shows or Hollywood drivel. He would have to stock up on some classic literature and the red Loeb edition of Lucretius that he treasured and still took everywhere with him.    

The sun was rising as he stepped out of the Casino and headed towards the carpark where he left the hire car. He heard him long before he smelt him coming up behind him. He didn’t bother to turn, he knew that specific smell.

“Hey, Fuck face… you owe me!”  The bald shark shouted.

Turtleneck was back and wasn’t happy. A wicked grin crossed Oliver’s face. He would play along for a bit. Oliver didn’t see the rising sun shining off the bald man’s grubby scalp, but his senses told him everything in the finest detail as the man drew a switch blade from his jacket.

Oliver’s mind wandered to thoughts of the myths associated with Vampires and the dangers of daylight. Yes, they usually do prefer to hunt at night and yes, the sun’s burning rays were a little inconvenient for their very pale skin (Sunburn was a bitch) but they didn’t burst into flames, crumble to dust and definitely not like Stephanie Meyer suggested that vampires ‘sparkled, like thousands of tiny diamonds’. “Bitch… please!” Oliver said out loud.

Turtleneck’s body jolted with Oliver’s response, thinking it was directed at him. “That’s not very nice, boy! You wouldn’t like me to cut your pretty face!”

Oliver knew he could take this scumbag in a second but wanted to manoeuvre him into a better position, out of the ever watchful eyes of the carpark closed circuit cameras. Turning abruptly and raising his hands a little, he took one step back and turtleneck moved in closer. Two steps back, closer again and finally between a van and one of the columns that punctuated the space. Oliver relieved his would-be attacker of the knife. His eyes grew wide as the man’s brain slowly caught up with what was happening. The shine of his slightly protruding eyeballs dimmed as Oliver bled the fucker dry. Depositing the corpse under the van he silently walked away. Smiling contentedly to himself, “The perfect end to a perfect evening.”

Like a dark cloud on his blood-intoxicated mind, he could feel Elio sharing his pleasure in feeding. He used to wish he could be rid of his presence from his thoughts but sadly, despite appearances, vampires are never truly alone.

 


	2. At 35,000 feet or what vampires do on a plane.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver the vampire is trapped in an airplane at 35,000 feet. Since Vampires don't sleep and he can smell every delicious mortal soul through the recirculated air conditioning system and he is starting to get edgy.

The hum of the cabin was tolerable from his private seat in first class. The air hostesses tried to pamper him from the moment they saw him come aboard but he brushed away their advances and everything they offered. He was being treated like a rockstar or a movie star. This was not the first time that he has been thought of as that, Mrs P. had labelled him ‘la muvi star’ back in the day.

Oliver hated flying. To someone like him, being cramped and trapped in recycled air for hours on end was insufferable. He smelt every single delicious mortal inside the plane, and he was unable to sink his teeth into them. He knew himself. If he permitted himself one small bite he would want another and before he knew it, he would have to land this damned plane himself.

This was how bored pacing caged lions felt, with gawking tourists holding up their hideous progeny. Teasing and tempting the poor trapped beasts, drooling at the bite-sized morsels. Oliver tried his best to keep himself busy.  He had read sections of his books and scattered his notes around him as he worked. The ancient crone in the next booth was slumbering soundly, dripping in oversized jewellery and was the epitome of everything he hated in the old money class. ‘Would anyone notice?’…. No, he must be good.

He shouldn’t be feeling like this. Oliver had allowed himself extra time to feed before leaving Las Vegas and then quickly made his way through security. The first few hours were easier to resist the urge. His cheeks were flushed and rosy, his heart pumped merrily, and he felt more compassionate towards his fellow travellers and less intent on ripping open every luscious throat.

This plan had worked reasonably well during the first flight to New York and he had managed to keep calm during the layover and transfer to the next flight. He was now 2 hours into the last leg to Charles de Gaulle and he was becoming edgy. He closed his eyes and wished for the gentle release of sleep to take him over but alas vampires don’t sleep. All he could do is lay there and let his mind drift.

The eminent Professor Samuel Perlman had been the bait to attract Oliver to take up the 6 week residency in Northern Italy. Perlman was highly respected on both sides of the Atlantic and his connections and influence could have made Oliver’s career. From the moment he was informed that his application was successful and he had accepted the invitation, Oliver read everything he could of Perlman’s books and articles. He was prolific, fascinating and had an individual approach to his field. To be honest he was a little scattered and sentimental for Oliver’s liking, but you couldn’t deny that the Professor was dedicated to his academic research.

From the outside the Perlmans appeared the perfect family. With father and son so devoted to each other. The father doting on his handsome son and encouraging his brilliance, indulging his precocious nature and promoting his talents. Elio blossoming in what appeared to be a very liberal and relatively ‘hands off’ parenting method that was so fashionable at the time. The boy roamed the town and local countryside with no curfew and little supervision. His friends and neighbours envied and remarked on his independence. Little did anyone recognise the ominous and pernicious nature of their relationship.

The young Samuel was entrapped by his infatuation of the effervescent beauty, Annella. A summer research trip to Europe had turned into a life sentence. The three became inseparable, cavorting though the hotspots of Paris in the swinging 60s. She offered everything Samuel had never known he required – wealth, beauty and a laugh that stopped his heart. Elio worked his charms and through periodic small feedings he had ensnared the brilliant academic unquestioningly into his service.

The steady stream of authors, doctors, lawyers and travelling academic diners at the villa would never suspect that the sumptuous hospitality and liberal amounts of alcohol would have a very exacting price. That debt was paid after the Perlman’s virtuoso son serenaded them into a deep slumber, before easing his voracious appetite in a little ‘take out’ at their expense.

Almost instantly Samuel and Oliver had become firm friends and he relished his sage words and open discussions. He was ‘OK’ with the Prof’s feedback and never tired of his elaborate but drawn out stories of his past glories. Oliver wondered to himself, what small indiscretion had he committed to have earned his eternal rest and liberation from Elio. Oliver had felt Samuel’s passing through his connection to Elio and the rage that culminated in Samuel’s demise. He couldn’t bring himself to show any emotion other than relief for his friend’s final release.

Was it the plane that shuddered or the feeling of loss that pulled him back into his present predicament? A woman over the way was complaining that her steak wasn’t rare. ‘It could never be rare enough!’ He thought to himself. He had little time or patience for the hypocrisy of human kind outsourcing the nasty and gory side of food production to faceless drones in abattoirs. Vampires could at least take the moral high ground for doing their own dirty work.

Every vampire had a preference when it comes to their blood source. Oliver prided himself on being a creative and versatile consumer and could never be pigeon holed, thrilling at the mostly random kills and revelling at the chance encounters or an opportunistic meal. He joked to himself that he preferred ‘free range’ blood. That said, he had no issue with adding an extra course if some asshole pissed him off or behaved in a manner that justified their removal from the food chain.

Elio's preference had less to do with type and more to do with tasting the Intelligentsia. Age, race, class or gender was no barrier; he desired to ingest the clever, the great thinkers of the age and the startlingly witty. He craved stimulation in every one of his senses, but if someone failed to live up to his expectations he would callously wipe them aside, without a second thought.

Somehow Oliver had intrigued and fascinated Elio enough to be kept. He had done all he could to avoid his advances, read his intentions and side step them. He became more emboldened by each rejection and the thrill of the chase.

Placing the annual guest in his own bedroom had been his master stroke. Not only giving him home ground advantage, the ‘usurper’ would feel obliged to capitulate to any of his whims in apology for occupying his space. The intensity of thoughts and intents that came through the wall from that small box room next door was palpable. Oliver had no intention to succumb to this incubus, but of course, his efforts to resist were all in vain. He prides himself on having withstood the great Elio for four weeks.


	3. Silence between the notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio is out of sorts as he returns to the Villa. He senses Oliver’s return to Europe and reminisces about his past romances.

“I thank my God for graciously granting me the opportunity of learning that death is the key which unlocks the door to our true happiness.”

_\- Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart_

A chorus of cicadas drew his attention outside; summer was coming. Dagger-like blades of sun streamed in through a half-open window and it was a welcome sight. One solitary fly hovered overhead marking out geometric trails of its own invention in the warm room. With lightning fast reflexes the interloper was eliminated.

Elio couldn’t stand lesser beasts in his vicinity. Craving attention, needing to be fed or begging for food at the table, he would tolerate no livestock or pets on his ground or in the house. God help a visitor who disobeyed the request to leave all pets at home. Stupidity was no excuse to disrupt his piece of mind or household. They would blame allergies, but it was more than that.

Having arrived only a few hours before from Milan, the furniture through the villa was still shrouded in sheets used as protection from dust in the time of their absence, giving an unlived-in feeling to the living room. He should have travelled alone on a later train so as not to witness the staging of his house. Laying back down on the soft sofa, they had tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but he was disrupted and out of sorts. The rest of the family knew to steer clear of him when he was in this sort of mood.

His body was warm from feeding and his long exquisite fingers drummed down his shirtless chest over his lath abdomen. His fingers caught on the trail of hair, which drew his hand further down into his shorts. The fresh blood made his engorging extremities flush and tender. He retraced the journey that many hands had made in the past, but today he longed for those big golden hands that he could feel were coming closer.

Expertly following the veins down to their root and tugging on the tightening skin of his sack, he could feel the other man’s excitement tinged with fear and Elio was elated at the expectation of him finally answering his call. It had been fifteen years since Oliver had stormed off like a petulant child when he had his favourite toy taken away. He knew he wasn’t coming back willingly or without an axe to grind; at least he was coming. What right did Oliver, of all people, have to tell him what to do? His anger built along with his excitement as he ground his hips, fisting his member. Once he thought of them as one soul divided between two bodies, now he would wait to see how contrite he is when he returned to him.

There had of course been others; some could compare to his beauty and many who had a greater passion for life. Wolfgango Amadeo was extraordinary. His talent was what marked him out, so inventive and masterful, particularly when pressed by financial hunger. His features were slightly marred by pockmarks from a bout of small pox in his youth, but that was so common then. He was obsessed with his charming fair hair, which he kept covered by the fashionable wigs, most of the time. Elio would tug it as they spread their seed far and wide. His appetite made him an unforgettable lover whose passion burnt so brightly but ultimately was extinguished along with Elio’s interest.

Their time together began in a Milan brothel. Amadeo had just turned 17 and was the toast of Milan society, many of whom wanted to take his prick. The expectation was he would take a position with Grand Duke Leopold I of Tuscany. Elio had followed his progress and artist development with interest since witnessing one of his performances three years earlier as he studied in Bologna under Giovanni Battista Martini.

Elio had orchestrated the drunken introduction while Amadeo was nuts-deep in whore. He had become aroused watching his bare ass flex and wane as his pace increased while rutting. Moving an arm around him from behind, the younger man looked up and was dazzled by Elio’s peridot eyes. The boy would never recover. Presuming Elio to be his own contemporary and since he was not averse to passion with both sexes, Amadeo allowed him to join them. To make a memorable impression on the young composer, Elio forced his engorged wick into him as the other thrust into the woman. His lithe body tensed but recovered quickly and what followed was an intense and lively session for the trio.

By the time their friendship was established, it was disastrously cut short when news of Amadeo’s proclivities reaching the Grand Duke’s mother (Empress Maria Theresa) and the offer of employment was swiftly withdrawn to ensure he wouldn’t influence the Grand Duke. He was renowned for sharing a bed with anyone who was not his wife. Amadeo was quickly removed to Germany by his frustrated father, who attempted to pimp him or his work to some other part of European nobility and regrettably out of Elio’s bed. A bereft Elio sent a libretto his lover had composed for him to a dear friend, Johann Christian Bach, in London.

When they met again eleven years later, Elio’s interest had mostly waned and he felt that Amadeo’s youth had been devoured by pandering to fickle nobles and a convenient marriage. It had been in his mind a kindness when Elio began draining his body. He had thought that it could be amusing to have Amadeo around again. Over several months Elio realised that Amadeo wasn’t going to be a compliant member of his household.

The massive blood loss had caused him to become rather delusional, slightly irrational and emotionally unstable. He was predicting his own death and began writing a requiem for it. Doctors were called, who ironically suggested a course of bloodletting to even out his humours. The frequent bleeding had taken its toll on a once brilliant man, as rumours began to circulate around Vienna of his imminent demise. As Amadeo took his last breath, Elio’s sex was buried deep inside of him, he was of no use to Elio any longer and he wished to return to his life in Italy.

*******

Calling out from the sofa…. “Mafalda!”

Elio covered himself with one of the sheets. Cautiously her head appeared around the door, as if to test the mood of the room. “Prepare my old room, we have a guest coming from the States!”

She could not hide her delight at the implications of his demand. Whispering to herself, she sighed his name. “Signor Ulliva!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mozart was conveniently in Italy, specifically Northern Italy from the age of 14 and 17 (1770 – 1773). There is no way Vampire Elio wouldn't have missed his chance to meet him at this time. Interestingly the Arch Duke (Brother of Marie Antoinette of France) didn’t employ Mozart and seriously missed a golden opportunity, because his mother the Empress Maria Theresa didn’t like Mozart’s family.
> 
> As was common at this time, Mozart changed his name as he travelled, depending on the language group he was in. Here he is in Italy and so we use that name.
> 
> "The use of multiple language versions of the same name was perhaps common in Mozart's day. Joseph Haydn went by "Joseph" (German, English and French), "Josephus" (Latin) and "Giuseppe" (Italian); and Ludwig van Beethoven published his works as "Luigi" (Italian) and as "Louis" (French)." https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mozart%27s_name


	4. Paris in Spring, Oliver's fall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver reflects on the times he has travelled through Paris.

Oliver knew it was a fucking cliché but Paris in the spring was delightful. The warming sun shining off the grey cobble stones, the charming walls and ornate balconies and the sun pooling in the spaces between buildings. He felt warm and calm and he had no intention of thinking about how horrible the flight had been. He fed quickly after leaving the airport and was planning his next move. He was calmer and happier than he had been in years.

Paris gripped him like no other city. It was his first stop when he returned to Europe after his summer in Italy and the place Elio brought him when he had first become a vampire.

That fateful flight from Italy had also been long and cramped. He had landed at JFK and walked through customs, totally bereft for his loss of Elio and the life he had lived in B. Behind the glass barriers he saw the throngs of expectant people. His father was obvious in the crowd by his height and then he caught a glimpse of his mother with her arm around his fiancé. He almost vomited at the thought of the life that was planned for him; the quick and respectable marriage, then a couple of kids, hopefully two boys, an heir and a spare. Then fast track to tenure, white picket fences, holidays with the parents, old age and death.  Before this summer he had been content with settling for this, but now he wanted to run as far away from it as he could.

This was his chance to escape. They hadn’t seen him, so he doubled back. Ducking and weaving through the crowds of people arriving. Making his way to the first ticket counter with his emergency credit card in hand, Oliver enquired after the first flight back. The flight to Paris was in half an hour and would have to do. He had no intent of ever returning to his life before Elio.

His worried parents called the Villa in the following days but Oliver had effectively disappeared. The Perlmans were able to tell them honestly that they hadn’t heard anything from their son since Elio had left him at the train station. The police were called to enquire after him and received the same response. His Diner’s Club card was stopped so with his last cash he caught a train to Milan. Which left him to hitch the last couple of hours to B. The residents of the Villa had kept a vigil, waiting and watching for a sign of his imminent return. Elio knew he had worked his charms well and was slowly reeling Oliver back in. He had to come of his own accord, beg for Elio’s forgiveness and acquiesce to anything from his lover. Even beg for death.

The reaction to Oliver’s homecoming was ecstatic and the whole nest was ablaze with lights and heartfelt joy. They all ate and drank to welcoming him back into the house that he had grown to love. Oliver began to wane in the evening, he wasn’t a great traveler and two long journeys had taken their toll on him. In a dream-like trance he and Elio ascended the stairs, arm in arm to the second floor. A chill passed through him as if someone walked over his grave as they stopped at the door of his old room.

“Tell me you will never leave me again?” Elio impatiently demanded.

Oliver quietly whispered in his base baritone… “I can never leave you. You are my … world.”

“Tell me you would rather die than leave me!” Kissing Oliver hard, crushing his lips. Elio’s hands covering his body and tighten their embrace.

“You will kill me if you stop!” sighed Oliver.

Elio wasted no time in the cloistered confines of his bedroom.  Oliver was naked before he even registered what was happening; his body’s tiredness from days of travel suddenly shifted into his groin and became total arousal. He was almost begging the moment Elio impaled himself on it. “Beg me for your release, Elio!” Elio said to Oliver. Elio switching their names, as they had done throughout the summer and during their lovemaking.

“Oliver… Oliver… Oliver… You will kill me if you stop!”

In the frenzy of passion, Elio was savagely nipping and biting Oliver’s neck and chest, playfully nibbling at his ears. Oliver didn’t register the moment Elio sunk his fangs into his neck. Oliver drifted off as the blood drained, his heart stopped pumping. His mind floated into a hazy dream of summer sun and apricots; blushing ripe on the tree. He could feel the warmth of the firm flesh on his lips; he felt the fuzz of the skin as he bit deeply into the fruit. At first he could taste the fruit but then the taste changed into something else; something cold and metallic, which reminded him of blood.

Elio nursed Oliver in his arms like the Madonna in Michelangelo’s Pietà. The blood dripped down his breast dripping at his nipple and that’s where Oliver suckled. The wound ran cold and blue with the blood of the primordial ones. At first pooling in his lifeless mouth and then as Oliver re-woke, he began to devour it as his corpse became animated again. His lifeblood and last breath had been drained from him and now was being replaced by something darker, like an ancient wisdom.

Elio’s voice was all around him and for the first time he heard the voices of the many others. Like hundreds of crossed telephone lines each giving snippets of conversations, thoughts and feelings. Oliver tried to cover his ears from the cacophony but he couldn’t shut it out. Elio was speaking calmly to him.  He watched his mouth moving and knew he needed to understand what he was saying, for him to explain this. He used all his will to shut out the other voices. Finally Elio became clearer and he groaned with relief as he slowly was able to tune out the other voices. He was exhausted with the exertion.

“Rest now my darling one! It’s been a big night for you.”

Tenderly brushing Oliver’s hair out of his face, Elio lifted him gently on to the bed and lay with him. Oliver was a little disorientated but what was more confusing was Elio’s sudden strength. How was he able to lift him so easily?

He had what could be called ‘sleep’ but it wasn’t. Dream-like visions and sensations washed over him; the thrill and excitement of the chase and then dark actions being committed.  Sleep never came but the life-force of the others was recharging him. What was all this about? What had changed in him and who was he now?

 

***

 

The streets were busy as the evening was warmer than it should be for this time of year. The crowds promenaded in front of him, like products on display. All were presented immaculately and he felt a hunger to taste them. They didn’t even look or notice him. Parisians were to be looked at and didn’t concern themselves with bothering to look at others. It felt good to be back on the prowl.

This lack of attentiveness to their surrounds could have been the reason why Elio had brought him here to learn to hunt. Not in the small in Italy with everybody watching and following the moves of everyone else. For all his faults, Elio was an excellent and thorough sire. He took the time with his progeny to train them in the art of pursuing their prey. There were no hard or fast rules to follow but at the same time, there were activities that should be avoided for they would draw too much unwanted attention. Oliver remembered being able to asking Elio a multitude of questions, covering every stereotype or myth that came to mind about vampires.

“No, Garlic won’t hurt you or most of southern Europe would be completely uninhabitable. That goes for crucifixes too. You saw the houses of my neighbours, you can’t move for hitting a cross.” Elio said flatly.

“What about silver bullets?”

“Oliver, you are dead! You can’t be killed twice! You are immortal. Time, loneliness or sorrow will wear you down but a new nest of mortals, a change of name or a new lover (he gave Oliver a wink) will bring on the ‘quickening’ and you will be reborn into the new age. Annella was so sparkling when she was young. She brought me so much ‘Joie de vivre’ after the hardships of war, I almost made her one of us, but alas I needed a new nest and I couldn’t spare her.”

Oliver continued the same line of questioning, “What about holy water?”

Elio turned and smiled at him “We are outside of space and time, you goose. A Christian god has no power over us anymore… unless you are of the disposition to want to punish yourself for being a top level predator. You of all people should have the resources to answer the simple question without appealing to a higher source or having some sort of moral crisis. ‘Why shan’t you kill?’”  



	5. The ballad of a Gaulic slave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains references to underage sexual assault, physical and mental abuse and slavery. If this is a topic that you will find disturbing, please skip this chapter.
> 
> 454AD : The young Elio is part of a ragtag troupe of travelling musicians and performers. When they are attacked his life spirals out of control into an abusive and unexpected trajectory.

Elio strummed his guitar absent mindedly. The weather wasn’t quite warm enough to sit for long outside but his mind had drifted as he sang in a Gallic dialect that hadn’t been spoken for a thousand years. When he learnt this song he went by a different name and his greatest worry was where his next meal would be coming from. Elio was in southern Gaul, performing with a troupe of troubadours who had become his family after his mother had died. He had no one else to turn to as no one knew who his father was. He wasn’t the only bastard in the world and it was something he couldn’t care less about. He was clever and wiry and his musical talents could earn him some bread or a turnip or whatever the audience could spare.

The ragtag band that he toured with was perpetually travelling somewhere and always aiming to arrive at the next place able to stay overnight in relative safety. It was always preferable for them to stop in larger hamlets or small towns rather than in the wilds and if the town had city walls it would be even better.

When one is living through a time, understanding the greater socio-economic change that is occurring around you is hard to perceive. Elio had heard of Rome, of course, but he didn’t understand how or why its power was waning over this land or any other. For the plebeians like Elio, the collapse of the Gallo-Roman kingdom into fractured little warring kingdoms had little to no effect on him and the general population. The changes to the patricians or ruling classes of the realm hadn’t changed the day to day living of the plebes. Taxes still had to be paid to someone and the wayward soldiers and bandits who bullied and harangued the common people were changing from Roman legionnaires to Germanic warriors but their actions and motivations were still the same.

He later read about the collapse of the old Roman Empire and learnt much from what had happened but as a boy of 17 years old, he could not have known the ramifications this vacuum would have on his life as the old system imploded. He was not naïve and the world he lived in was not the idyllic existence of the romantic poets centuries later. It was a dangerous and Elio had to work to survive, but at least he was free to do as he wished.

***

When the slavers or barbarians (as they called them then) came across his troupes of minstrels and troubadours travelling through a smallish woods, the group was sent dashing in several directions as they were overwhelmed by the strength and number of attackers. It was evident that they were woefully underprepared to battle for their lives. Elio ran away as soon as he realised what was happening and hid in the roots of a tree. Expecting the attackers to leave once they had taken whatever valuables that they could find in their carts and wagons, he was very wrong about this group of aggressors and their intentions.

All too late, it became evident to him that they were not a group of bandits but an organised group of warriors. After several hours the adrenalin had begun to freeze in his muscles and he had the harrowing experience of witnessing his friends being used for sport in all senses of the word. Hearing what was occurring was gut-wrenching and what felt like an eternity had passed since he had moved.

One man taking a leak found him in his hiding spot and dragged him out and held him up to the others like a piece of meat in front of a pack of hungry hounds. Hiding might have saved his life but in the end he still ended with a woefully small number of his group, bound and laying in the mud, bruised, bloody and aching from multiple assailants’ rough treatment.

By the age of 17 Elio was no virgin but sex with consent is a very different to repeated forced penetration by a group of men. Freewill is only afforded to a free man and Elio would learn very quickly that he had lost that. He was bound and under the control of people who saw him only as a commodity.

Of the group; the younger, the able bodied or the prettier were kept, with the remaining survivors being used as examples of what would happen if they disobeyed. Each survivor had been assaulted and humiliated, with many of the acts performed to scare them into submission but aiming not injure their appearance. Most of all they made it clear who was in control.

 Being restrained was one thing but the realisation that you are completely powerless and that you are without any hope of escape is almost unimaginable to anyone who hasn’t had their freedom ripped away from them. Elio could only cry for so long and after he only felt a bleak numbness of grief overwhelming him, as they marched the captives to some unknown destination.

By the time they had been dragged to Lutetia Parisiorum (Paris), now considered a separate kingdom from the region that they had been captured in, they were exhausted, beaten into submission and in worse physical condition than before.  Some had not survived the journey and had been abandoned where they fell.

Lutetia had become the capital of the Frankish kingdom as the warring Germanic tribes divided up the disintegrating Gallo-Roman regions. The Roman garrisons were being withdrawn back to Italy to protect the Capital from further unrest and attacks from the Visigoths and the senate had decided it was better to negotiate with the new the kings rather than waste their troops defending the provinces, when Rome itself was at imminent risk of falling.

As a skinny pale youth, the slavers knew that Elio’s most valuable qualities were his beauty and musical skills. A lord would pay a hefty price for such a useful boy. Almost in a daze, Elio was stripped naked and handed a lute before being shoved in front of the baying throngs. He watched it all happen outside of his body. The weeks of beatings and trudging toward this point, coupled with the grief for so many friends and of the freedom of his old life, had changed him immeasurably.

The raucous crowd was enjoying the spectacle of the sale but barely paused to register the sound he was producing; it did have the desired effect as the bidding became more energetic. He resembled a marble statue of Apollo, albeit a frightened and bewildered one.

When the hammer fell on his auction, he was dragged off the side and rebound to a post to await his new master. Elio sat and turned his hatred on the town (which would later become Paris); he decided it was the most cruel and vile place in the known world, full of self-serving and petty people. As the centuries wore on he continued to return to Paris and delight in exacting a price on its population for the treatment of the young man he had once been.

Flavius Aëtius was the Roman general commissioned to negotiate on behalf of Rome with the various Germanic tribes during the Hunnic invasions from the West. He had been raised in a Visigoth encampment as a diplomatic hostage to ensure peace between Rome and the German Barbarian Tribes in southern Germany and was well versed in a number of Germanic languages.

He presented quite a striking figure in full Roman armour on a black steed, surrounded by a motley collection of hardened Visigoth warriors. He liked his lovers young, slight and willowy and a slave boy or girl would do. He had decided that he would have Elio the moment he saw his pale skin and striking peridot green eyes. His looks were deceptive; he was also a sadistic, immensely unpleasant and petty man with little regard for others. He held ruthless ambitions and a sycophantic obsession with impressing the Emperor.

***

In the two months that he had been enslaved to Aëtius, Elio had learned to loathe his master, his smell, his taste and his predilections. Stockholm syndrome is a modern concept that would never come to influence how Elio felt about his situation or Aëtius. Everything he did was under duress and he was almost continually punished by his master. Elio played the lute until his fingers bled and his voice was hoarse, only to then be scolded for his lack of talent by this tryrant.

During his frequent demanded acts of sexual gratification, Aëtius would delight in telling him how he had killed his last lover or how much delight he would get out of watching Elio be fed to a lion in the Coliseum or how having him hung and quartered in front of his dinner guests would be preferable to his playing. Elio had no choice but to acquiesce to all of the general’s demands, no matter how vulgar or painful.

Aëtius showed little or no interest in Elio’s own pleasure in their activities. He was an object to be used and discarded. If the whim took him he would offer Elio’s body or orifices to his guests, friends or his troops, and as he did it he would laugh at the boy’s suffering. As each act was performed Elio would concoct revenges and punishments for his tormentor. In the end the ‘Great General’ would die at the order of the Emperor that he was so ardently trying ingratiate himself to.

Aëtius believed that he was due for some great reward, when he was summoned to the royal court in Rovenna. How could he have not? Aëtius had written to Emperor Flavius Placidius Valentinianus often enough to inform him of his successes. He went on and on about it to anyone who would listen – Elio heard it several times. Aëtius had prepared a report on the financial benefits of the deals that he had negotiated. This would be his greatest triumph.

On the evening before Aetius was due to report to his emperor, he was visited by Licinia Eudoxia, the wife of Roman senator Petronius Maximus (who would later murder the Emperor and take the throne). She was elegant and tall, pale and exquisitely exotic. How could he resist? He had drunk much wine and used every persuasion to make his move on the dark beauty, but to no avail. She rebuffed his advances and he began to get angry and lewd. Elio was doing his best to entertain as he played song after song that he had been taught were in fashion in the Roman Court.

Licinia suddenly leaped from her position and declared that she would no longer be the victim of Aëtius 's drunken depravities. She sunk her sharp teeth into Aëtius’s neck. Before Elio’s awestruck eyes, he watched Aëtius draw his last breath. His pleasure was only short lived as Licinia turned her dark eyes toward Elio, who was by now cowering in the corner.

She spoke very calmly and clearly. “Boy, you are going to die tonight.. but how you die will be your choice. Either you will stay a slave and be embraced by the Christian god in heaven, or you die and become a wolf in my service!”

Elio took less than a second to decide. He would do what it took to never be a slave again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing sexy about rape or sexual assault. It is all about a pathetic powerless person trying to feel stronger by transferring their weakness someone else.
> 
> If someone says that they love you and if they are worthy of your love, they will never put you into a situation where you feel you must sacrifice your self- worth or your dignity for their pleasure, gratification or to feel better about them self. Abuse of power is not love.
> 
> This has been a difficult chapter for me to write and I would like to send my heartfelt thanks to all those who gave me advice for how to proceed. Your encouragement was invaluable and has led to me devising the chapter plan for the rest of this story. Only took 4 versions to get here!


	6. Cor Cordium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Before Decay's effacing fingers_  
>  Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.”  
> \- Lord Byron
> 
> Oliver begins his journey back to the Villa and reflects on the tourist of the past who have made the same journey. Some who had made acquaintance of his sire, Elio.

_“But first, on earth as vampire sent,_   
_Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent,_   
_Then ghastly haunt thy native place,_   
_And suck the blood of all thy race._

_There from thy daughter, sister, wife,_   
_At midnight drain the stream of life,_   
_Yet loathe the banquet which perforce_   
_Must feed thy livid living corse._

_Thy victims ere they yet expire_   
_Shall know the demon for their sire,_   
_As cursing thee, thou cursing them,_   
_Thy flowers are withered on the stem.”_

― **Lord Byron** \- The Giaour [Unquenched, unquenchable].

 

Absentmindedly running his fingers up and down her spine. Feeling each vertebrate in turn. Oliver’s friend has begun to rouse from her slumber.

Their love making had been hurried and intense, clothing strewn across the hotel room in a trail leading to the bed. Oliver’s body had engulfed her petite frame hungrily. Thrusting into her, both groaning and writhing together, reveling in the sensations of the other. It had been too long since he had been with anyone.

She was totally captivated by his otherworldly beauty, her orgasm arrived in waves as they gazed into the other’s face. He slowed his thrusting to begin to draw just enough blood from her throat. The blood loss intensified the climax, as she lost consciousness, cradled safely in his arms. She was overwhelmed in all senses of the word. All her cares drifted away in the ocean of his blue eyes as her dick addled brain could only focus on the pleasure her lover was giving her.

 “Cheryl honey, are you sure you want to join me driving to Italy? You said you really wanted to see the Riviera Ligure, it’s so beautiful this time of year. I wouldn’t want to you lose your friends, but we can catch them up in Crema for the Festival”

Through patched lips she sighed, “Anything for you, Oliver!” and with that she drifted off again.

He smiled to himself in the half-light. He had chosen her for her bright and charming conversation, not to mention her striking features. It had begun after he had intentionally run into her several times over the last couple of days. He had consummated the friendship to ensure he would have some company for the long drive over the alps. He wasn’t going to try and fly to Milan as he didn’t have the peace of mind to fly anytime soon. Paris always make him nostalgic and seek comfort.

Oliver relaxed in the warmth and comfort of the bed and thought of the other travelers who had previously made their intended journey. Artists, sculptors and poets had all trodden these well-worn streets and trails. The infamous and the notorious had burst out of the British Isles at the end of the Napoleonic wars hungry for adventure.

***

It had been almost a generation since they had felt safe enough to travel through Europe on their ‘grand tours’. They had filled their time, researching the old world from the relative safety of their own homes. Devouring the classics and embracing the imagined historical decadence and classical trappings. French sensibilities and culture was out of fashion, and so Italy and Greece bore the brunt of the culture vultures, traversing treacherous roads and poor transit links, seeking adventure and whores. The exotic and relatively more morally relaxed Italians were engulfed with wave after wave of visitors drawn to the warm climate and the convenient excuse of classical education making southern Europe irresistible.

Elio and other Vampires had always done well out of war, both financially and socially. Like other scavengers, vampires were never far behind a battle. Who could pass up the opportunities for a quick meal or to collect a lost title or position as the rightful heirs expired prematurely.

Elio managed to ‘inherit’ the Villa Albergoni from a Count related to the Griffoni Sant'Angelo family. The house was exactly what he had been looking for looking for. His past nest had been in Greece and after his failed relationship with Lord George Gordon Byron, the sixth Baron Byron. His existence had become too obvious and so the secluded villa near B suited his needs perfectly and would give him time to recover.

***

Reading Byron’s windswept gothic poems had enraptured his mind and senses and he had to have him. His lust drove Elio to construct a new persona for himself. He took his one remaining servant as his ‘Maman’ in a boarding house in Athens.

Knowing much about Byron from gossip in the salons and by reputation of Byron’s predilections; Elio became the chaste fourteen-year-old, Nicolo Giraud. Of noble French birth but whose family had fallen on hard times after the war. He was the perfect distraction for the recently exiled Byron. This distantly beautiful and studious son of Byron’s landlady filled the older man’s heart and mind.

_“But my friend, as you may easily imagine, is Nicolo who by-the-by, is my Italian master, and we are already very philosophical. I am his ‘Padrone’ and his ‘amico’, and the Lord knows what besides. It is about two hours since, that, after informing me he was most desirous to follow him (that is me) over the world, he concluded by telling me it was proper for us not only to live, but "morire insieme" [die together]. The latter I hope to avoid – as much of the former as he pleases.”_

Byron vividly gushed to his friend John Hobhouse. Their plans to travel together twisted and turned as Byron took it on himself to educate the talented youth. He was caught like many before him and Oliver after him in the exquisite peridot eyes.

***

Their time together was forever strained as the boy’s tempers and jealousies knew no bounds and the couple suffered numerous estrangements. Byron’s friends would periodically intervene and take him aside and demand he give the boy up. Byron’s writing became full of him.

_“As if that eye and bitter smile_   
_Transferr'd to others fear and guile:_   
_Not oft to smile descendeth he,_   
_And when he doth 'tis sad to see_   
_That he but mocks at Misery._

_How that pale lip will curl and quiver !_   
_Then fix once more as if for ever;_   
_As if his sorrow or disdain_   
_Forbade him e'er to smile again.”_

To demonstrate to Nicolo that he was dedicated to the younger man, Byron sold his estate in England and set house in Ravenna. The lavish pleasure palace was remote, private and surrounded in extensive grounds that ensured only the people that the couple allowed, could gain entry. Byron’s notoriety of being ‘Bad, mad and dangerous to know’ had created a stir across Europe and he had created a form a mania or fantastical idol worship that would later be associated to modern pop-stars.

The invited guests were the brightest and best of Europe and frequently included notable beauties and noble families. The colourful guests and were regularly startled by the menagerie of animals that the lord insisted on collecting, much to Nocolo’s obvious displeasure. Shelley wrote of the miniature zoo, _“Lord B’s establishment consists…of ten horses, eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, five cats, an eagle, a crow, and a falcon…just met on the grand staircase five peacocks, two guinea hens and an Egyptian Crane.”_

Nicolo despised Byron’s guests and pets almost equally and one or both would depart the property without notice, or so it was thought. The staff were known to gossip to the local tradespeople of the opulence and decadence of the household. The drunken revelry and appetites on a scale of the long dead emperors of Rome and sexual acts that would have made Caligula blush!

Byron was rarely seen without a drink and frequently took medicinal tinctures and potions for a range of conditions, not to mention he smoked various substances that would later be fought over in the East. No evening repast would be complete until Byron had recited to the assembled guests one or many of his poems. These would be staged in the salon with him arranged in an armchair or draped over a sofa being buggered by Nicolo, the word stumbling out of the poets addled mind in time to the thrusts. The poet never fully unclothed but the nubile flesh of the young lover always displayed to full effect under the candlelight. Pale as marble and lath, he was on full display as the classical sculptures that the tourists were on the continent to view.

As the poem would reach its climax, Byron would emphasize particular words that would elicit riotous applause and rapture from the devoted assembled audience. Many in a state of intoxication that would see relaxing of their own inhibitions. They would be engaging in their own displays of self or mutual masturbation which were common and openly encouraged by the Lord.

One evening saw appalling behaviour from women of the highest rungs of society when the Duchess Micaela Visconti di Modrone from the noble family in Milan and Brandy De Horne, a wealthy American heiress, came to blows as they tried to collect the dribbling and pooling emissions of the poet and his lover. Servants had to be called and the ladies separated as they called each other names that you would expect to hear from the fisher wives by the harbour. They were not asked to return.

Nicolo felt the arrival of the Shelleys before they entered the grounds. Percy was one of the Lord’s closest friends had departed London in great haste. Percy had an unusual experience in a Soho Opium den, which had left him listless for a few days and then he became deathly pale. His wife Mary called for physicians, who couldn’t explain the gentleman’s illness or his erratic conduct, like biting the children.

Nicolo recognized him for what he was: a young vampire without a decent sire and more concerning, he was of his own lineage. The culprit would have to be dealt with in due course, but the present issue of training the tormented man would have to take precedence. The distraught Mary Shelley told the tale of woe that had befallen the family. In the few weeks of travel her own husband had devoured the lives of two of their children. Nicolo consoled her as best he could and took to taking long walks with his lover’s friend. He made it clear to the confused man that he would not tolerate any more antisocial misdemeanors.

The menagerie of Byron’s animals began to dwindle as the training of the young vampire progressed. Ultimately, Nicolo realized that something had to be done, when Shelley arrived with the body of a small girl child in his arms whom he wanted to present to his bereft wife. His intentions were good as he was hoping the child that he had adopted would relieve his wife’s suffering at the loss of their own child. He just shouldn’t have drunk from it on the way back to the estate.

Suspicions and rumors in the neighboring towns and villages had stories of black magic and human sacrifice, which put them all at risk.

Working quickly, Nicolo encouraged the manically bereft poet to join him and Edward Elleker Williams and Charles Vivian in testing out Percy’s new sailboat ‘Don Juan’ in the Gulf of Spezi. When a sudden squall blew up; the group of ex-patriates and entourage on dry land became distraught.

Four days later an exhausted Nicolo washed up, weakened but alive. The other three would eventually wash ashore in the subsequent 4 days, as Nicolo regained his strength. Byron and Mary could only watch on impassively while Nicolo roused a crowd of locals to build a funeral pyre on the very beach where he washed ashore. As the fire took hold of the body with the aid of a little brandy, some frankincense and considerable kerosene. With one quick blow of an axe, the boy separated the head of the poet from its body, in shock and awe the Anglophone crowd looked on without a word. He explained it’s European tradition, which they couldn’t refute as they didn’t know one way or the other.

The final shocking act of desecration was quick and the most otherworldly. The young man reached into flames from which he produced the dead man’s heart and handed it to the grieving widow, whose only comment before collapsing was “Cor Cordium” – Heart of hearts.

Byron stood in the darkest spirit of his life on that inclement day. He listened and watching the fire crackle, but it didn’t warm him, as it consumed his friend. His gaze drifted over to his dark and disquieting lover. Only a couple of days ago he was overjoyed at his miraculous survival which saw him wrenched from the raging sea. Now he looked on to the man as he actually was with new eyes; he was a monstrous thing that nightmares are made of. He would leave Ravenna and never renew his attention to his Nicolo. Even though he would reappear in his poems until his last.

_“Dark and unearthly is the scowl_  
_That glares beneath his dusky cowl._  
_The flash of that dilating eye  
_ _Reveals too much of times gone by…”_

Nicolo followed Byron back to Greece and made one last plea for him to return his affection and see them reenter their past state of happiness. When the older man shied away from his caress, he knew he would never let him love anyone else. Byron’s death came suddenly after a short illness, as the weather turned to spring. The military medic who had seen many other men recently die in the local area with similar symptoms attributed his passing to malaria.

***

Malfalda reentered the Villa through the kitchen door and listened for where her master was. She had been to the market to collect groceries and some medicine for Annella. She had met someone not totally unexpected.

Elio heard her knock on the door but was so engrossed with his task of transcribing, he didn’t respond. She pushed her head around the door and was delighted to see Elio in better spirits. She handed him the note that was written in haste.

_“Grow up. I’ll see you at midnight!”_

He stood up from the seat and stretched with his arms over his head. The look on his face was almost unreadable, except to Mafalda who had spent years navigating Elio’s moods. He twisted on the spot in the morning light and looked at his dated digital watch. “Make up another bed, he isn’t alone.”


	7. Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Vampire Oliver's journey back to B.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees that encircled the berm. Every tiny sound put Oliver more and more on edge. Cheryl was relaxing, comfortably molded into his reclining body. They had laid out a blanket in the picturesque spot hours ago. He had filled the time until the midnight deadline with a long languid session of passionate love making. Their coupling had changed in the past few weeks from fast and furious fucking into a more sensual exchange of warmth and pleasure. Oliver knew he would miss all this once the evening had all run its course. Their time together had been more fun than he had expected and as a travelling companion he had forgotten how much he had missed having an intelligent and practical woman around.

A cold wind blew up from the south and Oliver felt Elio’s arrival long before he could see him. Mafalda purposely made more noise than she should have walking towards them, and Oliver also felt Elio’s growing fury at the woman’s obvious misbehavior. At the moment they caught sight of each other across the darkened grass, it all came rushing back. The joy Oliver had felt for the boy who had shifted his life from the ordinary into the extraordinary. His heart felt a glowing pride at seeing him again. His Elio. His Sire.

It had been almost fifteen years and of course neither had changed an ounce. Elio’s strong but fine features were framed in his soft wavy tresses. His striking jawline that Oliver had once peppered with kisses stood proudly on his graceful neck. Oliver searched for his elegant fingers that had always been his weakness. So strong and lively, almost magical in their translucent paleness. How could two twin marble-like hands produce such extraordinary beauty at the piano and then in the next minute tear the throat out of some mortal.

***

After his death and transformation, Elio took Oliver on a three-month tour which culminated in a hunting trip to Paris. Elio had become so much more energetic and invigorated in the first few years after he took on his younger lover and playmate. The ‘quickening’ for a vampire is almost like the feeling that mortals call ‘love’. The older and world-weary vampire takes on the younger vampire’s passion for the age and with fresh ‘joie de vivre’, the two hurtle into an almost explosive frenzy of activity.

Nothing Oliver could do would compare to the glee of vengeance that Elio would inflict again and again on the general Parisian populous. His hatred had centuries to steep into a venom so malevolent and sinister that the City authorities started to question the safety of the people inside the city walls. Little did they know they bore the brunt of the anger of a man whom their predecessors allowed to be sold in the market square centuries earlier. Vampires have a long memory for past damages and misdemeanors and Elio was enjoying repaying the lack of care that had befallen him at their hands.

They trained in the hunt, the stalk, the chase down, the kill and finally the clean escape. Despite Oliver’s large frame, he had become perfectly stealthy and had developed quickly under the tutelage of Elio. His honed techniques would go on to serve him well and make him a very successful and well-fed vampire.

Paris was awash with blood. They both took much pleasure in the blood lust they felt and would rutt like rabbits after each successful kill. This ‘feeding and fucking frenzy’ became the central motif of their time together.

***

In the quiet of the berm they stood face to face. Locked in a wordless battle of will. Elio broke the deadlock by looking towards Cheryl. “Oh, you bought me a gift! Such a pretty little bauble,” he mused, grabbing Cheryl’s face firmly in his hands and inspecting her features. “Very lovely, but she is a pleasure that will have to wait until later.”

Elio pushed Cheryl towards Mafalda, who rushed up to her quickly and instinctively wrapped a protective arm around the girl and gave Elio a Neapolitan glare that would make fruit wither on the vine.

“You have finally answered my call. You are very infuriating the way that you willfully disregard my simple requests!” he continued in a placid but direct tone.

“We had not parted on the best terms and you had just killed my best friend. Would you expect me to return willingly? You have to be joking!” Oliver replied.

“Vimini had it coming. That horrid little child always dragging you down to that rock. Always plotting and scheming and counselling you against me,” Elio said rapidly.

“She did nothing of the sort. She was much kinder about you than you were about her. Sucking her blood, day after day, slowly bleeding her dry. The doctors called it Leukemia; I call it your blood lust,” Oliver spat back at him.

“Oh, I see you haven’t forgiven me then.” Elio’s annoyance was rising.

Oliver looked at his feet and shook his head. “She was my only true friend here.” He sighed.

“Oh… Boo-hoo, poor Oliver. Lost his little friend,” Elio taunted him facetiously.

“You can be so vile sometimes Elio,” Oliver said his name.

No one could say Elio’s name the way Oliver did. It hurt him to feel the flutter in his stomach as he said his name. He had not felt that feeling since the moment Oliver had left him.

“And you are so human. You disgust me!” Elio spat back and turned away to attempt to mask his own feelings, which of course didn’t work.

“Just tell me what you want from me, and I will be on my way,” Oliver stated, trying to take control of the conversation.

“Don’t push me, you impertinent pup!” Elio hissed with a pang of regret. “I made you and I can break you just as easily!”

Elio’s mood had shifted, and he pulled himself up to full height which he bore down on Oliver, making the younger man cower and show homage to his Sire.

Elio’s tone changed immediately to the soft and honeyed one he had begun with.

Looking off into the middle distance, Elio began to speak again.

“I have roamed this world for more than seventeen hundred years and I know when it is time to move on. I am tired of this place and these people. The nest can’t continue the way it has. The town is becoming suspicious of me, as ‘they’ age,” he gestured towards Mafalda, “And I don’t. Italy is also changing and to me it’s not for the better. I long for new places and to taste some fresh blood.”

He continued, “Since more and more fat stupid Americans are buying up the houses in these parts, no one will notice you taking over mine. Your task will be to modernize and refresh the Villa in preparation for my return. Fifty years or so should be long enough for anyone who knows me to shuffle off their mortal coils and I will be forgotten. I have had the papers drawn up to change the deeds and titles. Do you understand what I am asking you?”

Oliver stammers in a state of shock, “You’re giving me the Villa!”

“Yes, for a specific amount of time. Then I will return and reclaim it.”

With lightning speed Elio moved in on Oliver. He grabbed his face in both his hands and kissed him hard and deeply. The kiss turned into erratic passionate biting at each other’s lips. They clawed at the other’s bodies and hair in an animalistic battle for primal and natural lust. Time stopped as a trickle of blood escaped Oliver’s bruised lips. As if to seal their deal with an exchange of blood, Elio playfully lapped at Oliver bloodied lips, reminiscent of what occurred here 20 years ago.

Still holding Oliver in a tight embrace, Elio turned to Cheryl. “Girl, you can have him for the rest of ‘your life’ but remember that I own that ass and I can reclaim it any time I choose to,” Elio stated gleefully.

“Oliver, you have a lot of work to do and I have some unfinished business to attend to. So I will take my leave of you. Let us not say goodbye but instead say ‘adieu’ until next time.” Elio turned and was gone in a flash that left the mortals a little confused and Oliver a little saddened to see his once great love go.

Oliver walked over to Cheryl and Mafalda and sighed in relief, for the evening had turned out very differently to how he thought it would. Going down on one knee in the cool green grass, Oliver took Cheryl’s slightly shaking hand in both of large pale ones.

“Cheryl… honey, I know we haven’t known each other for very long but will you stay with me here in Northern Italy and be my wife?” he asked almost too earnestly.

She sighed her reply which drew an enormous smile from each of them, “Well, of course Oliver!”

The three walked back towards the villa together. Elio had left the papers to be signed and notarized on the dining table as he said he would. Oliver took Cheryl on a tour through their future home and out onto the terrace, where you could see the sea lapping at the rocky beach that Oliver had once thought of as heaven.

Mafalda rushed into the lower bedroom which Annella had occupied since the death of her husband and discovered part of the unfinished business that Elio had spoken of. She patted her cold hand and closed the woman’s eyes for the final time.

“Such a shame, she always loved a wedding,” Mafalda said in her distinctive Neapolitan dialect.

**Author's Note:**

> So here we go with the continuation of the Vampire, Oliver's journey. Thank you all for your advice, encouragement and input. Full your boots with messaging me.
> 
> If this is the first part that you have come across, please read the previous part before reading this one.
> 
> Oliver is a supreme poker player and an extremely astute game player, it's an intriguing part of his nature and so I seem to come back to it.
> 
> A big shout out Ashley M. for helping to book Oliver's flights. You are a rock-star.
> 
> Most of all, I cannot thank my husband Trent enough for his editorial skills and willingness to argue tenses!
> 
> Thoughts, comments, teenage styled squealing are more that welcome. Let's see if we can brake my 17 Kudos curse!
> 
> Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission.


End file.
